


No More

by shorter_than_hammo_and_clara



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: And I am mean to ollie, But I'd like to think Malc is a really nice fellow to kids, But it ends well though, But that's Ollie's dad's name now ok, But the dark bits are really dark, Gen, He is my tiny thick of it baby and I am so horrible to him, I'm sorry buddy, It starts off super cute, Poor poor ollie, That's just part of the story, Then it gets dark, Tiny baby who must be protected, Yes I realize that there isn't a dude called Archibald in TTOI, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shorter_than_hammo_and_clara/pseuds/shorter_than_hammo_and_clara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ollie Reeder is a tiny child with an abusive father. TW: abuse</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More

Oliver Francis Reeder, aged exactly 1 day. He has chubby cheeks and and a cheeky grin, smiling up at his mother and father, a couple who are in turn staring adoringly at their little baby. Neither of them could think of harming this boy, their tiny child with his adorable cherubic face.

Oliver Francis Reeder, nicknamed Ollie, aged 1. His father is a high-ranking office worker and his mother devotes all her time to looking after Ollie. He has lots of toys and books, and he giggles with glee every time some one tries to play with him. He's the happiest baby on the block.

Ollie Reeder, aged 2, yelling dada and mama, not knowing that dada's been laid off and has started drinking. They're a bit strapped for cash now, with the mortgage and whatnot. When he bangs his head on a metal pole and needs 12 stitches, instead of comforting him, his father shakes his head sadly, staring at the hospital bill.

Ollie Reeder, aged 2 years and 11 months, sitting in a hospital waiting room. His mother walks out, her chest heaving. The doctor walks out with her, a supportive hand on her shoulder.   
"I'm sorry, Mr Archibald Reeder," he says "Your wife has been diagnosed with cancer,"  
Ollie's dad stares stunned at the wall for a while, then runs out of the hospital gasping at this new reality. Ollie doesn't understand why this is so sad, but when his mom pulls him close to her, he knows not to let go.

Ollie Reeder, aged exactly 3. No parties, no celebrations, just hugs and a silver 'O' on a chain.   
"This is a family heirloom, Ollie," says his mom "Your grandfather's name was Oliver as well. Keep it safe,"  
His father says nothing, just gulps down another can of beer and grunts.

Ollie Reeder, aged 3 years, 8 months and 7 days. He remembers every single minute of this day, from the second his dad wakes him up screaming for him to get dressed because they need to go to the hospital "bloody urgently" to the moment when the machines connected to his mom stop beeping. He begs for his mother to get up but she never does and he cries when his father shouts in his face for the first time. It's not the volume that scares him, it's the fierceness and the not caring. For two days, the words "Good riddance" echo in his head. He is frightened and doesn't know what to think.

Ollie Reeder at his mom's funeral, wearing a dark suit that's way too big for him, so big that his hands only reach the middle of the sleeves. He is staring at the coffin, but he doesn't dare to look inside it. He doesn't want to see the lifeless body or the dull eyes, when his mother used to be so full of life. And he doesn't want to see the beautiful silk dress. His mother promised she'd wear it to his wedding when he was all grown up. She promised.

Ollie Reeder and his dad, moving from their big comfy house to a tiny flat in the middle of nowhere. All he gets to take are two of his favorite things. He chooses the silver chain and a stuffed bear. Everything else is sold. His father is mad, snarling and swearing as they drive to the flat. He gets even madder when Ollie starts to complain about the freezing downpour.   
"Be a man," his father says "It's just a bit of rain. Just water,"   
Ollie sniffs and pulls his duffel coat tighter around him.

Ollie Reeder, going to his new kindergarten in the shirt from the funeral, second-hand school jumper and trousers, and scuffed shoes that don't even fit him anymore. He doesn't know anyone there so he mostly just stays by the bookshelves, sitting awkwardly on a blue beanbag reading the books his mother used to read to him. He hears her voice in his head, soft and gentle, so gentle, so unlike his father.

Ollie Reeder, coming home from school to find that his bed has been sold, and there is just a dirty mattress and an unwashed blanket on the floor. His dad is drunk again, angrily interrogating him about the silver chain.  
"I could sell that one for millions, I could!"   
Ollie swears on his life that he doesn't know where it is.   
In reality, he does.  
It's in his school bag because he carries it around like a lucky charm every day.

Ollie Reeder, woken up by his father at night. The beer cans are scattered all over the floor. His dad has wild eyes and a flushed face.  
"Write your name, you idiot," he hisses.  
Ollie takes the pencil with trembling hands and spells out O-L-L-I-E. His dad takes it, squints at it, and shakes his head. Ollie tries again. Maybe his full name will work. O-L-I-V-E-R F-R-A-N-S-I-S R-E-E-D-E-R. His dad is angrier this time. I spelled Francis wrong, he thinks. F-R-A-N-C-I-S? His father bares his teeth and, in one almighty swooping gesture, grabs him by his neck and pins him against a wall.   
"YA WANNA KNOW HOW YA SPELL YA NAME?" Ollie nods, frightened. He isn't sure what he's got wrong.  
"I-D-I-O-T. WRITE IT, YOU!" I-D-I-O-T spells idiot, thinks Ollie. He shakes his head, looking up at his father with innocent blue eyes.   
"Daddy, you got it wrong," he says "I-D-I-O-T spells idiot. My name is Ollie," His father's eyes widen. The man raises his right hand and bam! Ollie's left cheek bears a large red print. Ollie doesn't know how to react. He just stands there, stunned. His father's left hand trembles and before long both of the little boy's cheeks are bruised and purple as a plum. He doesn't go to school the next day.

Ollie Reeder, curled up miserably on his filthy mattress, nursing the cuts and bruises from his father's now constant abuse. The older man can find something, anything, wrong with everything, and he takes it out on his son. Ollie hasn't eaten in days, and already he thinks he can feel the bones emerging. He has always been scrawny and short, but now he's even more raw-boned than ever. He only gets food at school, and even then it's only some bread or, when he is lucky, a raisin bun. Every day he is losing weight rapidly, his clothes hanging loose around him.

Ollie Reeder, locked in his room with no way out. The school term has just finished and he will not be allowed out until the next term. Soon it will be Christmas, thinks Ollie. And for a while he is in a fantasy world, where his mother is still alive and his father isn't mean and it's warm and he isn't permanently starving. But that fantasy is broken when his father storms in, clutching his silver chain.   
"Found this in yer school bag, eh?" His father leers in his face. "Ya swore on yer life, you did. Said ya never 'ad it. But ya did, didn't ya? Lyin' and cheatin' yer own father. Yer goin' ta get a beatin' for that, eh?" The older man pins Ollie to the wall and pummels him until everything fades away into warm and woozy blackness.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

He wakes up. Its warm and soft. The lights are bright and he can't see past them.   
Slowly, his eyes make out a man standing above him.  
His heart starts beating faster and he tries to back away but he is lying down.  
"It's okay," the man says gently "My name is Malc. I heard screaming and shouting from your flat when I walked past. Then I saw your father (Ollie freezes at this word) drop you onto the floor and I called the police. You were taken to hospital and now I'm looking after you,"  
Ollie stares into the man's startling arctic eyes and his iron-colored curly hair. Even though this man looks formidable, he finds his presence strangely comforting.  
The man leans a bit closer to him.   
"I've got to take you back to your room now. However, your legs are injured and can't really hold you up at the moment so would you let me carry you?"   
Ollie shrinks back at the thought of physical contact, his small fists balled up unconsciously.  
"Hey, hey it's alright!" Malc smiles at him reassuringly. "I'm just going to pick you up and transport you from A to B. I promise I won't hurt you. Promise,"  
Ollie stares at him, then slowly nods.   
He lets the firm hands pick him up.  
He lets the man hold him to his chest.  
His pasty arms wrap around the man's shoulders.  
For the first time in ages, Ollie is happy.


End file.
